


Vokriid

by watercolourcommunism



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Brief character death, F/M, Gen, Literal Soulmates, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-23 02:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7462731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watercolourcommunism/pseuds/watercolourcommunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vokriid (noun) - resurrectionist, one who undoes death<br/>From ‘kriid,’ meaning ‘killer,’ and the prefix ‘vo-,’ meaning ‘undo.’  </p><p>The Last Dragonborn earns a name for herself. Miraak is victim, witness, and beneficiary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First published story. This chapter is admittedly kinda weird, and other chapters will mostly be clearer and more direct. Will more than likely add tags.

Miraak confronts his young rival no more than five times.

Three times does Miraak poach on her prey, ripping her award away from her as a newly downed dragon shudders and breathes its last; the Last Dragonborn hardly acknowledges either his presence or her loss, only barely gracing him with a brief turn of the head, her golden mask inclined slightly toward his. One time does the young Dragonborn stumble into Mora's realm by accident, on her knees and trembling in a terror that Miraak can't help but revel in -- ( _but was she really frightened of him, or of Mora's realm itself?_ ) -- and one time does the Last Dragonborn arrive deliberately and in all her power, Mora's Words in her throat and Sahrotaar under her sway.

There is only a little insight Miraak is capable of gaining with only five encounters, but because of his pride he gains none at all. That is because there is no wisdom to be had, Miraak assures himself; this interloper is hardly worth the status of being his rival or of being  _Dovahkiin_ , and there is no depth to her. No knowledge she offers, no motivation for him look, to truly look, at what he might not see. All Miraak sees in her is an obstacle, then an opportunity, but never more than that.

This arrogance is his undoing, of course. When they do at last properly, finally, face each other on Apocrypha's summit, she slaughters him. Not quite effortlessly, perhaps -- indeed, he initially has her scrambling for healing spells -- but in the end it is not _she_ who absorbs a total of three dragon souls to survive for no more than ten more minutes. It is not _she_ who Hermaeus Mora discards like a rusted blade, broken and useless.

In the end, Miraak realizes three truths as Hermaeus Mora's sharp tentacle pierces through his chest and the familiar golden-white fire begins to surrender his soul:

1\. He has never even seen the Last Dragonborn's face, or heard her speak aside from her Shouting. There was never any chance for him to truly know what she is capable of before she came to kill him.

2\. Several thousands of years spent studying in the realm of the Daedric Prince of knowledge and secrets and he has learned absolutely nothing of value.

3\. This is her answer to his question, asked at the sight of another soul-stripped skeleton. It hurts. His soul is ripped from his body and it _hurts._

 

 

 

 

Soon, though exactly when he is not sure, the pain fades and Miraak feels, very acutely, nothing. Not just a _lack_ of stimuli, but a true     _absence_    of tangibility and reality.

So this is it, then? His reward for surviving millennia of Apocrypha and Hermaeus Mora's service, his punishment for falling to an enigmatic, implacable foe, is literally    _nothingness_.

 Even Apocrypha is preferable to this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~~ " _Miraak, zil groh dovah ulse!_    **_S L E N   T I I D   V O_ **  !" ~~~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
_Miraak breathes_. 


	2. Safety and Peace

~~~ " _Miraak, zil groh dovah ulse! **S L E N   T I I D   V O !**_ " ~~~

 

 

 

Miraak _breathes_.

For the first time in millennia, his lungs heave with Nirn's heavy air. He breathes and coughs and chokes -- his throat stutters on air until his lungs finally manage to fill. It's a small, but miraculous, accomplishment; though such was the battle to get air that Miraak almost forgets to release it again. But his lungs soon deflate accordingly and the brief pain in his head subsides. He focuses only on this, inhaling and exhaling in equal measure, until the rise and fall of his chest evens out as his body reacquaints itself with its most basic functions and he no longer has to consciously think to perform them.

Miraak breathes.

He is no longer in Apocrypha.

Miraak does not need to open his eyes in order to understand this; the very reality feels different, tangible. It is the difference between reading a book, imagination arranging the words together until they form some far away place, and actually standing there. He does not need to see it to know, but nevertheless the desire for visual information is overwhelming. There is a brief moment as Miraak shuffles briefly through subconscious memory, wondering if seeing will initially be as difficult as breathing, if there is a basic step he has forgotten. To his horror, he finds that his eyes are already open -- Miraak sees not Nirn, but _nothingness_ again. Panic bubbles up in his chest, threatening to disrupt the breathing process he had mended, before he realizes -- perhaps, _perhaps_ there is simply no light to see. In Apocrypha, save for one particular chapter, there is always at least enough light to read, but Nirn experiences night, he recalls, and his panic briefly turns to embarrassment. During his imprisonment, Miraak had planned and deliberated unceasingly about his return, but it seems that he hadn't quite accurately accounted for just how much he's forgotten about the world.

 _He is no longer in Apocrypha_.

Still, has the night always been so dark?

" _Geh, ahrk jahrii se maarre_ ," a voice, soft and distinctly feminine, chuckles somewhere in the darkness, and Miraak starts violently, scrambling to sit upright. The voice continues, in the same amused tone as before, "Shh, shhh, _dovahkiin_. It was only a jest; there are no terrors here. You are safe."

 _Dovahkiin_. Miraak remains silent, motionless, even as the realization begins to dawn that no one - save Hermaeus Mora - has ever actually addressed him with the title before. This time is the first. Of course, the word did not exist when he walked Nirn, but still - _still_ , it feels like finally he has been granted something long denied.

For the first time in millennia, Miraak is _speechless_.

The voice seems to realize this, and gives a small, satisfied hum that grows into a chuckle as Miraak apprehensively scans around for its source. There is an audible crack of magic - Miraak flinches violently, again - before a sharp, white light pierces his vision, and he has to shield his eyes so he can adjust.

“ _Krosis_ ,” the voice adds belatedly, a courtesy empty of sincerity. It is a few more moments until Miraak lowers his hand from his face with an almost painful slowness, and he is finally able to _see_ the only mortal to address him as _dovahkiin_.

It is the sight of the _Laat Dovahkiin_ \-- but of course, for who else? Mora? Alduin? -- that greets him as she stares at him from across the cramped room, hunched over with her elbows resting on her knees, perched in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair that is far too small for her. Dark circles under her eyes and the drooping of her eyelids speak for her exhaustion, yet somehow do little to dampen the smirk on her face.

After a quiet moment, she tips her head and her smirk grows. “Hello,” she offers, “you’re awake now.” The _softness_ of her voice is -- misplaced, Miraak thinks, though he isn’t entirely sure why. She had been _so deafening_ during their duel in Apocrypha, her Thu’um resounding with such hatred and viciousness; somehow, her quietness now is even more unnerving, and it sparks in Miraak a terrible suspicion that is enough to prompt him to recover his own words.

“ _Why?_ ” Miraak can only whisper. He cannot elaborate, the warble in his deep voice will betray him, but he does not need to. She understands.

_Why am I here? Why did you bring me? Why, when you were the one who killed me?_

_What do you want from me?_

Instinctively, Miraak knows he will serve. He has always, within the stream of time and without, served someone, something. And besides, _Laat Dovahkiin_ bested him -- _killed him_ \-- when he refused to submit. It is natural that he serve now a stronger _dovah_ now, especially if _she_ is the one responsible for --

More questions spring to mind. “How did this happen? How am I alive? Did _you_ do this?” Miraak demands, his tone tinged with an almost submissive awe. _Surely_ she is responsible, for she is here now. But -- what power does she possess that she is able to force him back to life? Force his torn -- absorbed, _erased_ \-- soul back into his formerly shattered, charred body? Who, or _what_ , is she?

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s smug grin only widens, and she straightens in her chair, shoulders back and chin raised. She is _proud_ that Miraak is alive, and he is more than willing to concede that she has good reason to be. “I _did_ do this,” she confirms, but does not explain further.

The answer does not satisfy. “The Gardener of Men did not give you this power,” Miraak notes cautiously. Mora was never so generous to _him_ , after all, and he wonders if even the Prince possesses this ability.

“It did not,” _Laat Dovahkiin_ affirms, again. “I brought you back with my own power, more or less.”

More or less. Miraak hesitates, unsure if he dislikes more her choice of phrasing or her stubborn reticence. _Dov_ are hardly stingy with their words, but _Laat Dovahkiin_ seems to have overcome this trait. It is frustrating, but --

Miraak stares down at his hands and flexes his fingers, watches the muscles and tendons and bone work in perfect unison. He is _alive_ , and that is enough for now, especially if his new benefactor is unwilling to offer more. In reality, he has no right to even ask anything of her after she has given him life again. There is nothing he can give to equal that.

The spark of magelight goes out, and the two are left in darkness again. Miraak finches, even though he knows it is not the same darkness that enveloped him after death. He flinches again when a sudden tangible warmth touches his knee.

“ _Drem, dovahkiin_ ,” _Laat Dovahkiin_ murmurs, her voice still hushed but now much closer than before. “I said there were no terrors here and I meant it. Rest now, or at least let _me_ rest -- tomorrow I’ll tell you of the effort I went through to bring you here.”

Again, her words fall far short of satisfying Miraak’s need for answers, and he does not want to rest, he is alive, he is alive in Tamriel again and _he can feel_ \--

He can feel that physical warmth moving, a weight settling near his body until _Laat Dovahkiin_ is laying beside him. “ _Drem_ , rest, please,” she whispers, and despite the thoughts racing through Miraak’s mind, his body, aching and heavy from the exertion of _breathing, moving_ , is inclined to listen.

Miraak sleeps. After all, he is no longer in Apocrypha.

 

* * *

 

Miraak sleeps.

Unfortunately, Miraak also dreams. The oblivion of sleep is too much like, well, _Oblivion_ , and Apocrypha and all its demons open up before him without mercy. He is not in Tamriel, he is not even alive, he is dead -- worse than dead, _e r a s e d_ , and yet not even that will free him, for _he is bound to Hermaeus Mora for all eternity_ \--

 

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ wakes him.

 

* * *

 

“Vaermina touched you,” _Laat Dovahkiin_ explains.

Miraak scoffs, pretending not to notice how his body is trembling and slicked with sweat. “I’m afraid you have the wrong Prince,” he rumbles, correcting her. He is proud that his voice does not waver.

It is still dark in the small cabin; morning has yet to arrive. Without visual aid, Miraak feels rather than sees _Laat Dovahkiin_ shift to prop herself on her elbows. “I told you already. You are safe here.”

A dark, chuckle claws its way out of Miraak’s dry throat. Safe from the All-Seeing Eye, the Prince of Fate? Absurd.

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ shifts again, and Miraak can’t help but recoil in surprise as her arm wraps around his waist. “ _Drem_ ,” she murmurs, her breath warm on his jaw. “ _Praan ko tahriik, Dovahkiin_. You are safe, and you will sleep.”

And he cannot argue with that, even if he doesn’t believe her, because with the weight of her arm across him and the heat of her body and breath comes the reminder that Miraak is _alive_ and - above all - he is not alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most Dovahzul translations will either be implied or restated in context, but for clarification here's some notes anyway:
> 
> 1\. "Miraak, zil groh dovah ulse! SLEN TIID VO!" = "Miraak, your draconic soul is bound to me for all eternity!" Both the phrase and Shout are from when Alduin resurrects dragons. Interestingly, the initial phrase is very similar to the one Miraak uses for his 'Dragon Soul Tear' Shout.  
> 2\. "Geh, ahrk jahrii se maarre." = "Yes, and full of terrors." I saw the opportunity for a GoT joke and I took it.  
> 3\. "Drem...Praan ko tahriik, Dovahkiin." = "Be at peace...Rest in safety, Dragonborn."


	3. Tinvaak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took ridiculously long to write this and I'm not entirely sure it all flows logically. Honestly I'm in desperate need of a beta because my editing skills are abysmal and my ADHD is crippling. My tumblr is watercolourcommunism (the Vokriid sideblog is also me) if you're interested.

When morning finally arrives, it does so with _fanfare_ : a piercing, juddering series of shrieks jolts Miraak out of his uneasy sleep, startling him so harshly that he instinctively lashes out. When his limbs strike only empty air, Miraak raises his head from the relative cushion that his arm provides, bracing himself to confront whatever nightmares Mora has set for him now.

Except, when Miraak opens his eyes, there are no nightmarish creatures to greet him. There is no _Mora_ to greet him; just an empty, achingly _alien_ cabin room and that high-pitched _shrieking_ that continues to drone on and on.

It’s still real, Miraak realizes, with dawning awe and trepidation. He is still alive, he is in Tamriel, _he is home_ \-- and yet, it does not feel like home. The cabin walls and floors, made of molding wooden boards instead of book paper and bindings, are not familiar to him. Even the tint of the light shining through gaps in the ceiling boards is different, somehow whiter, missing the yellow-green haze of Apocrypha he has grown used to. But it is light enough to see by, and Miraak sits up slowly, lifts himself off the bed _slowly_. He sets his bare feet on the wood floor with so much caution because he feels if he is too fast, too abrupt, the miracle will shatter and he will be left in the awful abyss again.

Although the floorboards groan in protest, the world does not shatter when Miraak steps away from the bed. Even after several moments pass, nothing changes; this truly is not a fantasy or illusion, it won't shatter on impact. Reassured, Miraak wraps the blankets around himself as a makeshift cloak and takes the opportunity to explore this strange, real world.

The one-room cabin is larger than it had initially seemed in the magelight, although just barely; it is sparsely furnished, and aside from the the single bed laid with hay and furs, there is a long dresser leaning against the wall adjacent to the bed, an empty table pushed carelessly up against the opposite far wall, a bookshelf filled with what seems to be all manner of miscellany _except_ books, and the _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s empty chair.  _L_ _aat Dovahkiin_ herself is nowhere to be found. But she is here in this place somewhere -- perhaps not in this room, but on this plane and relatively nearby -- and she promised to soothe the questions burning in Miraak's skull, so he resolves to find her. He hesitates only briefly at the door to the outside, wondering if perhaps he is meant to stay put, and if the safety she promised is exclusive to the cabin. But then the shrieking, droning noise from earlier starts up again, and curiosity wins out; Miraak takes a deep breath and steps out into the outside world.

Initially, he sees nothing. What had been dim but manageable light is suddenly blinding and Miraak freezes, blinking harshly in unobstructed sunlight. It takes longer for his painfully sensitive eyes to adjust than he thinks it should (although admittedly Apocrypha has left Miraak’s perception of time in a rather dismal state to judge), and caution again briefly curbs some of his eagerness. But his vision returns soon enough, and when it does, amazement accompanies it; he sees now that a forest surrounds the cabin, thick trees towering into the sky and knee-high grasses swaying in the wind, and suddenly Miraak is struck by how _green_ Tamriel is, how _alive_ it feels. On one side, the forest pushes up against a tall cliff face, and even the rock there seems to breathe; the opposite side extends eastward, sloping down and out of sight, and only the faint roaring of moving water hints at the river there.

The entire world breathes, _Miraak breathes_ , and to this, Apocrypha is completely incomparable.

Utterly awed, Miraak stumbles forth from the wooden shelter, impatient to feed his curiosity, to _know_ , to _be a part_ of this world again. He is quickly, completely overcome -- overwhelmed with sensations, the brightness of it all, the smells, the freshness of the air, the coolness of the dirt under him, the constant twittering and rumbling and shrieking and other sounds he can’t yet name, all _so overwhelming_ \-- and for the first time in a long time his head and chest and feet are _so light_ and he is _euphoric_.

This is home. There are no floating eyes hiding within the greenery here and _he is home_.

Distantly, Miraak is aware that his cheeks are wet, and his vision is a little indistinct, but he does not stop to wonder at it, not when he is finally home and has all of Tamriel to wonder at; so, instead, he wipes his eyes and takes to inspecting everything in his range of senses to the best of his ability.

Miraak is unsure how much time he spends exploring his new surroundings, but the sun inches across the sky bit by bit until it is fully overhead and bearing down on him; the warmth is welcome, as it chases away the morning chill that his blanket-cloak does not fully protect from. Although he does not stray far from the cabin, at one point he manages to discover that the shrieking that woke him is a songbird of some sort, albeit one with some very odd ideas of how a birdsong should sound (or at least compared to how _Miraak_ thinks a birdsong should sound). Evidently, _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s promise was sincere, for even though Miraak can’t help periodically glancing over his shoulder out of habit, no danger intrudes upon the tranquility of this place.

Eventually, though, the isolation and greenness presses in, and Miraak retreats back to the doorway of the cabin. His body aches in a way that was once familiar, _should_ be familiar now, but in response to a cause Miraak has long forgotten, so he resolves to wait for the _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s return.

(The thought gnaws at him that she might not come back, that she has deceived and abandoned him, trapped him in isolation and helplessness. But her promise of safety has held true so far, surely she would not lie to him about this. He has... no _rational_ reason to doubt her, yet.)

Miraak reflexively traces his fingertips across his chest, feeling the phantom of a tendril splitting through the flesh. It doesn't hurt now; when he looks closely, he realizes that there's not even a scar.

(He wonders if he has been passed from one god to another.)

The cabin offers little to keep Miraak busy, but the threat of boredom provokes an anxiety he does not want to admit to, so he takes to exploring the one-room shelter more thoroughly. The miscellany of the bookshelf are mostly unfamiliar, strangely crafted objects, and Miraak leaves them untouched, unwilling to allow himself to dwell on the question on the length of his absence from Nirn. The dresser holds various folded blankets and furs, which are more familiar but uninteresting, and in the end the only discovery that holds Miraak’s attention is a small square door built into the floorboards. He fiddles uselessly with the lock for a time, but ultimately gives up. Defeated, Miraak drags _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s empty chair onto the porch outside, curls his blanket around himself, and waits.

 

* * *

 

Miraak is fighting off sleep when _Laat Dovahkiin_ finally returns, a small thundering of hoofbeats announcing her arrival. By force of will, Miraak does not move from his huddle in the chair or speak, instead only watches the younger Dragonborn as she leads two massive draught horses to the cabin’s fence to be tied. It is another reminder on how much Miraak needs to re-familiarize himself with Tamriel that he realizes that he cannot even guess the reasons _Laat Dovahkiin_ requires horses, where or how she acquired them in the first place, or why doing so took so long.

When she is close enough to be heard, _Laat Dovahkiin_  intones, “I apologize for my lateness." Miraak thinks her tone is almost too even to be sincere, and she pays him little mind as she dismounts and relieves the horses of several packs and bundles on their backs. “I didn’t realize my errand would take as much time as it did.”

Miraak only hums in response. He shifts uneasily, unable to ignore the pain still in his abdomen. “You did not inform me that you would be gone.” It isn’t particularly surprising, of course, as so far they have had little time to speak, but the younger Dragonborn’s brief but unexpected absence has left him more unnerved than it should have.

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ glances at him from where she is crouched rifling through a large knapsack, and fixes him with an intense stare. In the sunlight, Miraak now notices that her irises are a burning gold. How had he missed that before? Finally, she answers, “I did not.” Then, nonchalantly she adds, “you are naked, Miraak,” and returns her attention to her pack.

...So he is. The fact did not completely escape him earlier, but then it had been less urgent. Disgruntled, Miraak pulls his blanket more tightly around himself and protests, “I did not find any clothes here.”

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ nods, but does not look up. Is she so bashful, or just that dismissive? More likely the latter, Miraak thinks; he does not remember her taking issue with his state of undress during the night before. Besides, she has the demeanor that such concerns seem beneath her somehow.

Apparently, however, they are not so beneath her, as _Laat Dovahkiin_ finally locates what she’s been looking for and produces a set of dull gray and blue fabrics before holding them out to him expectantly. “I intended to have everything, included your clothes, already prepared before reviving you,” she confesses, “but my plans were waylaid somewhat.”

Miraak frowns, brows drawing together in confusion, momentarily lost in the implications of her words; he only remembers he actually has to extend his arm from his huddle to receive the garments when _Laat Dovahkiin_ shakes the cloth at him insistently. They’re heavier than expected, and Miraak lays them out on his lap to better study them: a set of trousers, tunic, outer robe, and cowl. No mask. Running his hands over the wool  produces the telltale crackle of magicka enchantments that mark them as mage’s equipment. Miraak guesses they must be high quality, but for all he knows such clothing is common in this time and place.

A small smile comes to Miraak’s face as he continues inspecting the clothes; mage robes though they are, the sharp cuts and subtle but intricate designs make them entirely dissimilar from his former priest garments. “Well, even the best of plans can be thwarted,” he jests, speaking from experience.

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ only snorts, but she is smiling too. It is a different smile than the smirk she wore the night before, Miraak notices, this one softer, somehow less self-satisfied. (It looks somewhat _odd_ on her face, as if her lips are inexperienced in forming it). “It seems so,” she agrees, “but the most awry plans may be salvaged as well.”

(Again, Miraak wonders how, _why_ she had bothered to salvage him in the first place.)

Actually putting the robes on is somewhat more of a struggle than Miraak expects; the laces tangle and the fabrics slips from clumsy fingers long unpracticed. After a few seconds of watching Miraak fumble about, _Laat Dovahkiin_ intervenes wordlessly, thankfully sparing him the embarrassment of asking for help in dressing himself. Once Miraak is mostly finished, _Laat Dovahkiin_ ducks back to her knapsack to produce pairs of socks, boots, and gloves. Getting _these_ on is even more of a trial even with  _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s help, and Miraak’s clumsiness remains a sharp reminder of how painfully out of touch he still is with life on Nirn (as if he needs more reminders). However, once fully dressed, Miraak is significantly warmer and agreeable, the soft hum of magicka enchantments a familiar comfort even in odd, unfamiliar clothing. 

(He has no mask, and the breeze is cool against his face, but it seems pointless to protest when she has just seen him naked.)

Without a mask, the contentment on Miraak’s face is visible, and _Laat Dovahkiin_ grins wryly. “Perfect,” she declares, adding, “I imagine you’re more at ease now that your delicate pink skin is covered.”

Miraak scoffs, though he is somewhat taken aback at the unexpected jab, accuracy aside. “I was not aware that _golden_ skin was particularly tougher, especially since yours is also covered,” he retorts. Indeed, _Laat Dovahkiin_ is similarly dressed in her own elegant mage robes, along with several carved steel armor pieces that Miraak can’t help but eye warily. Surely armor is excessive for running errands, especially in such a supposedly safe place.

(The idea that she wears armor because _Miraak_ is the danger makes him swallow thickly, because _Laat Dovahkiin_ is absolutely justified in not trusting him, even when he’s too helpless to dress himself or survive on his own as he is now.)

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ shrugs, her small grin still in place, either unaware of or unwilling to acknowledge Miraak’s abrupt uneasiness. “ _Vahzah_. In the skin itself, there’s very little difference,” she affirms, “but Nords are generally too easy to tease for me to resist.”

The sentiment is a little _odd_ , Miraak thinks; he has not made acquaintance with enough of the other races to argue or agree. Instead, he notes, “The _dov_ have us both beat. Thick scales, but thin skin.”

It’s an amiable, if inane conversation, and certainly not one Miraak would have ever expected to occur. However, the novelty of _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s return and her subsequent gifts is beginning to wear off, and Miraak’s attention is again returned to the mysterious pain in his abdomen. A feeling that cannot be described as anything but _fuzzy_ starts to creep into his head, and it distracts from whatever answer _Laat Dovahkiin_ gives him.

After a few long moments of silence as the fuzziness becomes faint dizziness, Miraak remembers his courtesies. “ _Krosis, dovahkiin_ ,” he murmurs, slipping again into the small chair he’d brought out earlier, “ _Ni pruzah_. I am feeling oddly.”

The easy smile on _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s face vanishes, immediately replaced with a burning, calculating stare. Miraak suspects the latter expression is more natural to her than the former, given how quickly she reverts to it. However, it fades as quickly as it comes, and this time realization takes its place.

“Well, you haven’t eaten, have you?” she asks, as if it were obvious.

And… it _is_ obvious. It is so obvious and basic that Miraak is momentarily dumbfounded that he did not recognize it before.

(Too helpless to dress himself, too helpless to know to _eat_ , certainly too helpless to survive alone. The knowledge is humiliating and humbling in a way that being defeated in Apocrypha was not.)

His silence is enough of an answer, and _Laat Dovahkin_ nods to herself and fetches one of her various bags before striding inside the cabin. Miraak hesitates, whether out of general malaise or hurt pride he isn’t sure, but does not wait to be summoned before following.

There’s not enough room for both of them at the table, and Miraak chooses to perch on the bed to wait rather than hover over _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s shoulder as she produces several carefully wrapped bundles from her bag. “I doubt the food is hot now,” she warns, “but it’s still more or less fresh.” She hands him a loaf of bread and piece of cheese, along with a bit of meat Miraak does not recall the name of, all wrapped carefully in thin, linen cloth - “No plates, I’m afraid,” - and finally an opaque bottle of some sweet liquid that, again, Miraak has no name for. He spreads the cloth and food out on his thighs, cautious of letting any of it fall. The foodstuffs have a _thick_ , pungent smell - not _bad_ , but stronger than anything he’s smelled so far - and induce an intense stab of familiarity that Miraak nearly chokes on.

Strange, he thinks. There is nothing emotional about food that he can remember. This little meal certainly does not spark any clear or particular memories of his past life. And yet, Miraak must pause, must take a moment to understand the enormous relief that has blindsided him. He even has to rub some of the wetness from his eyes, keep his face pointed safely away from _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s gaze.

(It had not occurred to Miraak then, when he was rotting under Mora’s watchful eyes, planning and fantasizing futilely and desperately of escape, that he would be so repeatedly overwhelmed by the little things that remind him he’s alive.)

They take their meals in silence. _Laat Dovahkiin_ finishes first and uses her own linen cloth to wipe the crumbs and sauce from her hands. She is very neat, even when deprived of utensils, and Miraak watches with some interest as she meticulously folds the cloth and replaces it in her bag. She does not break the quiet yet, for which Miraak is grateful, and instead busies herself with organizing the miscellany of the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. _Laat Dovahkiin_ is too orderly, her manners too tactful and refined, and Miraak suspects that this tiny, barely furnished cabin is a woeful downgrade from her usual circumstances. Perhaps she has the luxurious lifestyle equivalent to what Miraak enjoyed as a Dragon Priest, or maybe elves simply tended toward the genteel; regardless, she seems out of place here, and he again wonders where _here_ is.

The ache of hunger fades as Miraak finishes his food, and he cleans his hands and folds the linen in the same way his companion had done.

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ speaks first, as is her right. “You have questions,” she acknowledges, but continues before Miraak can voice them, “and I promised you that I would explain how you came to be here. I mean to do so, though I admit I’m getting somewhat bored of this place. I would like to leave for a little bit. I will take you to where I first revived you, if you feel well enough to accompany me.”

She does not need to elaborate before Miraak shoots to his feet, eager for answers and for the chance to see more of Tamriel again. _Laat Dovahkiin_ chuckles at his promptness, but does not mock or scold him for it, and steps out of the cabin with him close behind.

“We won’t need the horses,” she declares, noticing Miraak’s expectant gaze toward the huge beasts. “It’s rather a bit of an uphill climb for them.”

“We are to climb the mountain, then?” Miraak guesses, glancing upward at the cliffs that shadow the forest. The mountain itself is not particularly tall, but steep enough here to prevent an easy route up.

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ hums in confirmation. “The path up is northeast of here. I confess I’ve always preferred to walk the extra few miles or so rather than scale mountainsides. I’ve lived at sea-level for too long for that.”

Indeed, she ambles along at a leisurely pace, looking as if she has all the time in the world. It is a nonchalance somehow unlike Miraak’s characteristic longsuffering patience, but he does not mind; it allows him the chance to explore, to stop and examine every little novel thing that catches his attention, from the orange tufts of undergrowth to a fox’s footprint path. _Laat Dovahkiin_ watches with amusement written on her face, but thankfully spares Miraak’s dignity of making any comparisons of his eagerness to that of a child’s.

They do not walk very far before the trees thin and the forest opens up, revealing the sky and giving the sunlight full rein to shine down on them. Miraak pauses to soak up the sun, but _Laat Dovahkiin_ nudges him to attention.

“Look,” she directs, pointing up the mountain. Miraak obeys, and his breath catches in his throat; built into the side of the mountain, grand stone columns and curved arches jut out into the blue sky. The distinct architecture of a temple of the dragon cult is _achingly_ familiar, even if this particular temple is not, and Miraak’s chest is tight.

(Distantly, he wonders if he will ever grow comfortable again in Tamriel, or if even the most mundane of things will continue to trigger such emotion.)

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ waves him over and leads him to walk more closely along the base of the rock, where the ground is lightly brushed with snow. The temple is somewhat difficult to see from this angle, but Miraak strains his neck and stands tall so as to not lose sight of it; _Laat Dovahkiin_ has to gently nudge him to avoid obstacles in his path.

Eventually, the cliff face veers away, and they come upon a wide dirt pathway sloping up the mountain. A tower stands at the end of the pathway, and Miraak naturally turns to it, but _Laat Dovahkiin_ hesitates, briefly, before nodding to herself in some sort of a decision. Miraak follows without question.

The path grows much steeper and rockier as it nears the tower, but Miraak welcomes the exertion as they pick their careful way. Occasionally he pauses and looks back, reveling in the view of the narrow forest valley and the winding river that snakes through it, something he could not see from the cabin. As they climb, Miraak catches sight of smoke and thatched roofs nestled alongside the far bank of the river.

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ notices his gaze. “We will be stopping there on our way back,” she informs him shortly, and keeps walking.

As it turns out, the tower is only midway up the mountain, and the temple is completely obscured behind the higher rock. _Laat Dovahkiin_ pauses again at the base of the stone tower, one pointed ear angled upward, before continuing. Miraak strains his hearing, but only catches the sound of the wind whipping by.

“Some bandits were holed up here earlier,” _Laat Dovahkiin_ explains. “I cleared them out, but I thought some may have escaped and come back.”

Bandits? Near a temple? Unlikely. Surely the guards should be protecting the area, especially since the nearby village is clearly inhabited. As long as they pay steady tribute, the Dragon priest here ought to defend them.

But…no. The Dragon cult is extinct now, Miraak reminds himself. He _knows_ this, has read every book in Apocrypha about the slow death of the cult and the history that followed, and yet it is difficult to truly accept.

Miraak’s step falters as he thinks, and _Laat Dovahkiin_ looks back at him expectantly. There is something eerie about the revelation that every member, every priest and parish, of his old faith is dead and gone. “I suspect they’re all _undead_ now,” he mumbles, mulling over the thought. He desperately hopes that none of the draugrs’ rotting faces will be familiar to him.

“ _Nid_ ,” _Laat Dovahkiin_ corrects, to Miraak’s great shock. “I practice atromancy, but not necromancy. I did away with the corpses. I wouldn't have been able to raise them like I did you anyway.”

It takes Miraak a moment to realize she is speaking of the bandits, not the draugr, and his brief flare of… something (excitement? _Hope?_ ) fades away.

He shakes his head. “I was thinking about the draugr, that the temple inhabitants must all be undead now.”

“...I see.” _Laat Dovahkiin_ answers, her tone oddly detached. She continues the trek uphill, and again Miraak follows. “They are dead again. I killed them during my first visit here.”

This time, Miraak does not stifle his curiosity, and questions fall from his lips unbidden. “How often do you come to this place? When was the first? If not to resurrect me, then what for? What temple is this, and where is it?”

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ holds up a hand in surrender and laughs, and Miraak is stunned by the sound. Quiet laughter, yes, but _genuine_ nonetheless. “I don’t know why I didn’t realize you’d be so... _inquisitive,_ ” she chuckles, her voice soft enough that the wind presents a real threat to carry her words away. Miraak walks closely with her, their feet stepping in time.

She continues, “This is Bleak Falls Barrow. I’ve been here twice, including the night before when I raised you here. The last time was several years ago, after Alduin’s return and just before I discovered my Dragonborn nature.”

She still has not fully answered him, and what she has answered only gives rise to more questions, but Miraak does not prod immediately, for the temple finally comes fully into view. The barrow stands proud but vacant in the now heavy snow, and Miraak sees that the younger Dragonborn’s words are true. Not a living or dead soul walks along the stone path, and the outcroppings where guards and draugr ought to stand vigil are empty. The temple itself, grand though it is, is truly now a ruin, various arches only halfway standing, and huge stone pieces of rubble scattered about.

Miraak steps forward, climbing up to the first of the tiered platforms, this time with _Laat Dovahkiin_ following him. At the middle of the platform there is a wooden chest, its lid hanging wide open, pushed up against a large, oblong piece of rubble -- so inconspicuous and out of place here that Miraak is quickly drawn to it. Behind him, _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s steps falter, but Miraak does not look back, already too absorbed by curiosity. The contents of the chest are covered by only a thin layer of snow, and Miraak brushes it away thoughtlessly.

Miraak stills. His breath catches.

His gloved fingers brush murky blue-green fabric, shimmering with powerful enchantments and carefully embroidered with faded gold designs; placed neatly between the folds are decorative bits of armor, shaped like scales. Priest robes. _His_ priest robes. Underneath his robes lies a misshapen mask; Miraak does not uncover it.

“Did you think I’d lost them?” _Laat Dovahkiin_ asks. Her voice is quiet. Everything about her is quiet; somehow she has appeared next to his side, although he did not hear her do so.

Miraak snatches his hand back and stands again. The garments are still soaked in the acrid, nauseating smell of Apocrypha. He has no desire to don them. “I did not know what you did with them,” he confesses. “Is this where you brought me back?”

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ ’s responding hum is noncommittal. Miraak must strain to hear her answer. “I _resurrected_ you here, yes. Initially I had to bring your bones and effects from Apocrypha to Solstheim, as it seems impossible to travel between that plane of Oblivion straight to Skyrim. All things considered, I suppose that is a good thing.”

She lightly kicks the chest, and Miraak realizes it must have served as his impromptu _coffin_ for the duration of the trip. More practical than an actual coffin, much less the grand gilded coffin worthy of a Dragon priest, but...undignified. He doesn’t complain. After all, he has no use for it now, and that is far worth any indignity.

“Honestly,” _Laat Dovahkiin_ notes, voice wry, “hauling this thing from Solstheim to halfway across Skyrim and up this godsforsaken mountain was probably more difficult than actually resurrecting you, as Odahviing refused to help me transport your bones. I had to hire a carriage for most of the way. Thank the gods you can walk on your own now.”

Thank the gods? Miraak shakes his head. “The gratitude belongs to you, I believe.” He frowns, his brows drawing in confusion. “But _how_ did you do it? And why here, and not at my temple, or elsewhere on Solstheim? Surely it would have been more convenient to do so.”

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ doesn’t answer immediately, and Miraak feels her stare burning through his skin. She is sizing him up, somehow, and he instinctively straightens his back, bracing for whatever expectation she believes he needs to meet.

Finally, she speaks, her voice still so strangely soft in volume and tone. “Before I slayed the World-Eater, I witnessed him using a Shout to resurrect his followers that reversed the damage done to their bodies and reawakened their souls. I suspected it would also work on _your_ dragon soul, and I was correct in this.”

A Shout? Miraak’s mind is awhirl. “Did Alduin teach you this Shout?” Surely not; the World-Eater is -- _was_ \-- far too possessive of the privileges that his birthright granted him. He would never teach such a powerful Shout, especially not to a mortal; that he would teach it to the mortal fated to kill him is completely out of the question.

As expected, _Laat Dovahkiin_ shakes her head. “Alduin taught me nothing, for his soul was not mine to take. The Shout was not taught to me at all, actually; I knew which Words I needed to learn, and I meditated on them until I understood what it is to reverse the damage time inflicts on flesh.”

And -- Miraak understands. Within his limited memories of tendrils piercing his body and his bones _burning_ and skin slipping off his frame and his throat choking on hate -- between memories waking up in the dark, of a soft voice reassuring him through his panic --

_S L E N  T I I D  V O !_

“Flesh, Time, Reverse,” he murmurs.

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ nods. “The Gardener of Men was a cruel master to you. Before it, the Dragons were cruel masters to you. Your fate was manipulated by enemies and doomed from the beginning.”

Miraak swallows thickly; he cannot speak, so he only nods his head. She is giving voice to everything he told himself in Apocrypha, breathing life into his suffering, and it is hard for him to breathe. But -- it is also a relief, somehow, as if a burden has been taken from him, shouldered between the two of them.

Miraak stares at his feet, clothed in brand new boots. He does not look at her. She is far too bright.

“You asked why not Solstheim, why not your temple,” _Laat Dovahkiin_ acknowledges, continuing gravely, “This is a new chance at life I want to give you. A new fate. I thought it would be inappropriate to start it in the shadow of the old.”

A new fate. A new chance at life.

Miraak rubs his eyes ( _how often will he be reduced to this?_ ) and forces his gaze to meet hers. Her gold eyes are scorching.

Finally, he chokes out, “It is… a grand gift. I am not worthy of it.” And he is not. The atrocities he committed in his past life are painted behind his eyelids, demanding justice. He deserves the death he had been dealt.

 _Laat Dovahkiin_ gives a small smile in response. This time, if there is smug satisfaction in her face, it is outshone by visible empathy. “I know. But we are Dragonborn, and our souls and actions are divinely ordained. So here you are, worthy or not.”

(How eloquent she is, how _wise_. It is no wonder why Akatosh chose _her_ to slay Alduin, why Hermaeus Mora coveted her so badly.)

Miraak is silent for some time, digesting her words and reasoning. There are still some pieces missing in her explanation, but for now he is willing to take what she has offered. In fact, he decides that it is time for him to give in return.

He stands tall and looks the Last Dragonborn in the eyes and tells her, “You have given more to me than I can possibly repay or deserve. You have killed me and resurrected me, and for that, I name you _Vokriid_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dovahzul:  
> 1\. "Tinvaak" = a conversation, to converse  
> 2\. "Vahzah." ="True." / "I am in agreement."  
> 3\. "Ni pruzah" = "(I am) not well."


End file.
